"Just the same. Five dollars."

"Well, come on. I mustn't stand and 'covet,' but I would so love to have that for Alfaretta. I promised to bring her something home and that would please her to death!"

"Good thing she isn't to have it then!" he returned.

Dorothy laughed. "Course. I don't mean that. I'm always getting reproved for 'extravagant language.' Miss Rhinelander says it's almost as bad as extravagant—umm, doing. You know what I mean. Listen. I'll tell you how I lost it, but we must hurry. I smell dinners in the houses we pass and I reckon it's mighty late."

She narrated the story of her loss and her New York experiences in a few graphic sentences; and had only concluded when they reached the hotel piazza, bordering the street, and saw their whole party sitting there waiting the dinner summons. The faces of the elders all looked a little stern, even that of the genial Judge himself; and Molly promptly voiced the thoughts of the company when she demanded:

"Well, I should like to know where you have been! We were afraid something had happened, and I think it's mean, real mean I say, to scare people who are on a holiday. Dorothy, child, where have you been?"

"Ox-omobiling," answered poor Dorothy, meekly, and feeling as if she were confessing a positive crime.

"W-h-a-t?" gasped Molly amazed.

"Ox-omobiling. I didn't mean—"

"What in the world is that? Did you do it with that boy? Is he—where—what—do tell and not plague me so."

"No. I did it with the man who—" Here culprit Dolly looked up and caught the stern, questioning gaze of Mrs. Ebenezer Stark, and her wits fled. "With Joel, and I'm to meet him in—in Heaven—right away."

Utter silence greeted this strange answer, part of which had been made to Miss Greatorex's austere gesture. This signified on the lady's part that her ward was late and hindering the meal and was so understood by the frightened girl. She looked around for Melvin to corroborate her statement but he had vanished. Having escorted her into sight of her friends he considered his duty done and disappeared.

"Dorothy! You've been having adventures, I see, and have got things a trifle 'mixed.' Best say no more now, till we all get over our dinner-crossness and then tell us the whole story. Since you are safely back no real harm is done; and, friends, shall we go in to table? The second bell has rung," asked Mrs. Hungerford, smiling yet secretly annoyed by the delay Dorothy's absence had caused.

The Judge had received more letters from his "Boys" and even more urgent ones. That meant cutting short their stay in every town they visited; even omitting some desirable places from their list. It had been decided that they must leave Digby on Monday, the next day but one, and they wished to utilize every moment of the time between in visiting its most attractive points.

"Now, we'll take that ride. I was going to get Melvin to drive one small rig with the young folks and I would drive another surrey with us elders. He's taken himself off, though, so I'll just order a buckboard that will hold us all," said the Judge, when they had rather hastily finished their meal.

So they did, and presently the four-seated wagon with its four horses and capable driver tooled up to the entrance and the party entered it. All but Monty Stark. Much to his mother's annoyance and regret, that young gentleman firmly objected to the trip.

"I don't want to go. I hate driving. I don't care a rap for all the lighthouses or Bear Rivers in the world. I'd rather stay right here and watch the fishermen. I never had such a chance to see them so close at hand and—I—do—not want—to go."

"Montmorency, darling! Don't turn nasty and spoil all poor Mamma's pleasure, don't. I can't see what's the matter with you, dear? You have been positively disagreeable ever since we took that walk. Did you get too tired, lovey? Is Mamma's baby boy ill?"

"Oh! Mamma, please! I shall be ill if you don't quit molly-coddling me, as if I were an infant in arms."

They were speaking apart and in low tones, so that she caught but the word "Molly" and instantly inquired:

"Is it that girl, dearest? Has she been behaving badly to you? You mustn't mind her sharp tongue, she's only a—a Breckenridge!"

"Yes, she has been behaving outrageously. She's made me feel as cheap as two cents. Just because I couldn't think of any remarkably funny thing to do in this horrid old town—Oh! go on, and let me be. I'm not mad with you, Mamma, but I shan't go on that ride and be perched on a seat with either of those wretched girls, nor any old woman either, for the whole afternoon. Do go—they're waiting, and they'll wish no Starks had ever been born. I guess they wish it already."

Perforce, she had to go; but it wasn't a happy drive for her. If her adored Monty was disgruntled over anything she felt the world a gloomy place. She did exert herself to be agreeable to the Judge, who sat beside her, yielding his place on the driver's seat to Molly, whose manner was almost as "crisp" as Montmorency's own. But she would rather have stayed behind to look after her son; and had she known what was to happen on that sunshiny afternoon she would have been even more sorry that she had not followed her inclination.

However, at that moment there was no cloud upon the day; and no sooner had the buckboard disappeared from sight than Montmorency Vavasour-Stark performed a sort of jig on the hotel verandah, threw up his cap, gave a loud Brentnor "yell" and dashed up the stairs to his room as fast as his short fat legs could move. Thence he soon reappeared, clad in his "athletics"—of which a broad-striped blue-and-white sweater attracted much attention.

He had now become "plain boy." He had shed the "young gentleman" with vigor and completeness and was bent upon any sort of "lark" that would restore his usual good nature and complacency. He had observed whither disappeared the various bell-boys when off duty and meant "to stir up" one of them if nothing better offered.

Something better did offer, in the shape of Melvin Cook; calmly munching a slice of bread and butter in the stable-yard and as rejoiced as Monty himself to be quit for a time of women and girls and "manners" in general.

Montmorency hadn't been attracted before to this "son of all the Cooks," who was so fair of face and slender of build, but now he reflected that if he obtained permission to go into camp with the "Boys," and the Judge, Melvin would, perforce, be his daily companion. As well begin now as ever then; so he accosted the bugler with the question:

"Say, can't you get up something dandy for the rest of the day? We've shed those folks till dark, I guess, and I'm dying for anything doing. Eh?"

"I've hired a sail boat and am going out alone, except for Tommy here."

Tommy was the most juvenile of all the bell-boys, a lad of not more than ten, who tried to appear quite as old as these others and who now strutted forward announcing:

"Yes, me and him is going out in the 'Digby Chicken.' A tidy craft but we'll manage her all right, all right."

"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" cried Monty, patting the child's shoulder and incidentally slipping a quarter into the little fellow's open palm; for it was a habit of the richer lad to bestow frequent tips whenever he journeyed anywhere, enjoying the popularity this gave him with his "inferiors."

"A sail-boat? Can you manage a sail-boat, Melvin Cook, by yourself without a man to help you?" he demanded in sincere astonishment.

"Feel that!" answered Melvin, placing Monty's hand upon his "muscle." "There's a bit of strength in that arm, eh, what? And you may not know that I come of a race of sailors and have almost lived upon the water all my life. Manage a sail-boat? Huh! If you choose to come along I'll show you."

Ten minutes later they were moving out in a their frail craft from the little pier across the street from the hotel; Melvin for skipper, Tommy for mate, and Montmorency for a passenger. That was the beginning. It did not dawn upon any of the trio what the ending of that sail would be.



CHAPTER X

WHAT BEFELL A "DIGBY CHICKEN"

The second bell for the last meal of the day had again rung, and again the Breckenridge party waited on the verandah for delinquents. Mrs. Stark positively declined to enter the dining-room until she had found out what had become of Montmorency. Mrs. Hungerford as positively declined to leave Mrs. Stark, and the Judge's temper was again being sorely tried. Their twenty-mile drive and sight-seeing had sharpened appetites that already were quite sharp enough and the eminent jurist wanted his supper. To walk off his impatience, if he could, he paced up and down the long verandah at a brisk rate, which did not tend to allay that uncomfortable feeling in his "inner man."

The hotel proprietor left the dining-room, where he personally superintended the serving of his guests, and joined the Judge, advising and complaining:

"We've the usual Saturday, week-end crowd in the house and I'd like to have your party get through in yonder soon's you can, if you please. I'm driven half-crazy, nights like this, by the demands and exactions of these transient people. I need every man-jack of the help and somebody says that Tommy has gone off with your lads. Tommy is small but he's the best bell-boy in the house and—I'll trounce him well when he gets back for serving me such a trick. Best get your dinner now, Judge, or I'll not promise you'll be able to later. Excuse me for urging, it's in your own interest, and—There comes another load from somewhere! and I haven't a room to give them. Cots in the parlor, if they choose, nothing better?"

With that he hurried to meet the newcomers and the Judge said to Aunt Lu:

"We certainly should go in to table now. It does no good to sit here and wait. That doesn't bring the runaways any sooner and they'd ought to go without their suppers if they're so thoughtless of our comfort. Mrs. Stark, won't you come?"

Then he observed that the lady was weeping copiously. It was now fixed in her mind that Monty was drowned. She had been told that he had gone sailing with that other dreadful bugler-boy the Judge had picked up, and, of course, this was the only explanation of his absence. She refused to be comforted and would have gone out in a boat herself to search for her son had she felt this would be of the slightest use. Indeed, she was fast becoming hysterical, and Mrs. Hungerford shook her head negatively when her brother begged her to leave her post and come with him.

"Very well, then, sister, Miss Greatorex and the girls and I will go without you. Afterward, when the boys come, I'll try to have a special meal served for you somewhere. If I can! Come, Molly, Dolly; and I'm glad that you, Miss Greatorex, have some sense."

So they departed and finding that Mrs. Stark was attracting the attention of the other guests upon the piazza, Aunt Lucretia persuaded her to cross the street to the pavilion that stood upon the bluff above the water and that was now deserted.

"From there we can see the boat as soon as it approaches, dear Mrs. Stark, and I feel sure you've no cause for such anxiety. Doubtless the boys have been fishing and have not realized how long. It is still bright daylight yonder and these are glorious moonlight nights. Even if they stayed out till bedtime they could see all right enough."

Mrs. Stark followed the advice to seek the pavilion; yet simply because it brought her that much nearer her lost darling. But when a tray of supper was sent out to the two ladies there she refused to touch it and her grief spoiled her companion's appetite as well.

After a little time Miss Greatorex and the girls retired to their rooms, at the Judge's advice. He too had at last become infected with the anxious mother's forebodings and felt that there was no need for Molly and Dolly to be also frightened. Then he joined the watchers in the pavilion, where the other guests refrained from disturbing them, although it was a favorite resort on pleasant evenings.

Many a boat came back to the various small piers extending from the shore into the water, here and there, but none was the little "Digby Chicken." Her owner took his place at the end of the pier and sat down to wait. Of all his boats she was the newest and prettiest. She had sailed out into the sunlight glistening with white paint, her new sail white and unstained, and on her shining hull a decoration of herring surrounding her red-lettered name. It had been the builder's conceit to omit the name, the string of painted fish answering for it to all but "foreigners;" but as it had been built for the use of these "foreigners" or "tourists" the printed words had finally been added.

Minutes passed. Quarter-hours; an hour; two of them; even three. There was no longer any moonlight. The distant cliffs and headlands became invisible. One could only guess where the Gap strove to close the entrance to an outer world. The hotel verandah became more and more deserted, and one by one the lights in the upper windows shone out for a time, then disappeared. Gradually all lights vanished save those in the lobby and a faint glimmer from a corridor above.

Though wraps has been early sent out to the anxious watchers in the pavilion, now heavy steamer rugs were brought, to keep out that penetrating chill. The Judge had on his heaviest overcoat and yet shivered, himself covering his long legs with a thick blanket. He had made several efforts to induce Mrs. Stark to go indoors but all had failed.

The fog that was slowly rising when the boat-owner took his station on the little quay below had crept nearer and nearer into shore, and finally enveloped everything and hidden it. So dense it was that from his bench on one side the circular pavilion the Judge could barely make out the white pillars on its opposite side. A lamp had been lighted in the roof but against this Mrs. Stark had vehemently protested, because it made that wall of white mist seem closer and more impenetrable, and without it she fancied that her eye could still pierce the distance, still discover any incoming craft.

About midnight the wind rose and the fog began to thin and scatter. The boatman on the pier had long ago left it, forced off by the rising tide, and now sat floating in one of the row-boats fastened there. He had put on his oilskins and set his oars in readiness for the first sign of distress on the face of the waters; but he had about given up hope of his pretty "Digby Chicken." That a couple of touring lads, even though one had protested that he was a good sailor, that these should come safely through a night like this seemed unlikely; but now that the wind was rising and the fog lifting, he drew his boat close under the pole at the pier's end and lighted the lantern which swung there. There was now a chance that its gleam might be seen from beyond and there had been none before.

Then another time of waiting, which ended with the boatman pulling out from shore. The watchers above had heard nothing, had not even seen him leave, although the lantern had faintly shown him riding upon the wave, moored to the pier by a rope.

But now, rubbing her strained eyes to clear their vision Mrs. Stark broke the long silence with a cry:

"The man! He isn't there? He's gone—to meet them!"

She was as sure of this now as she had been before that her son was drowned, and Mrs. Hungerford slipped an arm about her waist in pity. She dared not think what the result would be of a fresh disappointment.

However, their long vigil was really ended. The trained ear of the boatman had caught a faint halloo from somewhere on the water and had rowed toward the sound with all his strength and speed. At intervals he had paused to answer and to listen—and the now swiftly dispersing fog enabled him also to see—and finally to utter a little malediction under his breath. It scarcely needed the glass he raised to show him the "Digby Chicken" riding quietly on the water not more than half a league off shore. Her sail was furled, she looked taut and trim, and he could discern a figure at her prow which raised its arms and again hallooed.

"All's well that ends well." But it might not have been so well. The full story of that night's work did not transpire at once. All that Mrs. Stark knew was that she had her son once more within her close embrace; that he had been helped, even carried, up the narrow pier and placed dripping within her arms. She ascribed his soaked condition to the fact of the fog and not to the truth; and it was not until daylight came that he told her that. Then lying warm in his bed, with her hovering over him in a flutter of delight and reproof, he announced:

"I tell you, Mamma, the only folks that amount to anything in this world are the poor ones!"

"Very likely, love, very likely. Only don't distress yourself any more. I can't forgive that wretched little bugling boy for taking you out in that horrible boat and nearly killing you. You're very apt to have pneumonia or something—Don't you feel pretty ill now?"

"Mamma, you can't forgive him? What do you mean? Didn't anybody tell?"

"Tell what, lovey. I certainly didn't stop to ask questions. All I cared for was to get you into bed and a warm breakfast or supper or whatever it is sent up."

"Then you don't know that but for Melvin Cook I should be lying at the bottom of the Basin now, instead of in this bed?" demanded Monty, raising himself on his elbow.

The pallor that overspread his mother's face was answer enough, and he blamed himself for the question. Even without knowing the worst truth she had evidently worried herself ill. But the mischief was done and when she asked: "What do you mean?" he thought it best to tell. Moreover he was anxious that she should know of Melvin's bravery at once. So he answered:

"Well, I made a fool of myself. He had tackle and we fished along, just for nothing hardly, and I got cocky and jiggled the boat. Then when he said I'd better not but ought to lend a hand in working her and 'learn sense,' I—Well, I don't remember exactly what happened after that; only I got up on the gunwale, or edge of the 'Chicken' and the next I knew I was in the water. It all came over me in a flash that I couldn't swim and would drown and I shut my eyes and tried to say a prayer. But I couldn't think, and then I felt something grab me. It was that Melvin. He'd tossed off his jacket and dove for me and was dragging me to the surface and the boat. I tried to get hold of him tighter but he kicked me off and said if I did that we'd both go down. I thought we would, anyhow, so I did let go and then he got me to the boat, yanking me by the collar and—that was all for a good while. I—I was pretty sick I guess. I'd swallowed so much salt water and all. He and Tommy rubbed me and jounced me around and paid no attention to the boat, that kept drifting further out all the time.

"I don't remember much else. I lay on the bottom of the thing and the boys put their coats over me to stop my shivering. Melvin said afterward that I shivered from fear and shock more than from dripping, too, but he couldn't stop for that. He had to try to get back to shore and the fog was rising.

"Tommy told me a good deal, later on when I felt better. He said the fog got so thick Melvin was afraid to try and sail lest we should bump into some other craft. So we lay still till—I guess you know the rest. Now I want to hear, has anybody coddled either of those boys—heroes, both of 'em—as you've coddled me? If they haven't been treated right I'll make it lively for somebody. Anyhow, I want to get up and dress. I'm ashamed of myself. When I see how other boys act I think I've been—Well, I won't call your lovey-dovey hard names! But you hear me say: I'll be a man after this or—or know the reason why!"

It certainly was a long speech for a sick boy as Mrs. Stark persisted in considering him; and it left her shaken and most undecided on various points. Upon one, however, she was fully set; she would cut this Nova Scotia trip short at once. She would telegraph her husband in Boston and follow her telegram, bag and baggage, by that afternoon's train. With this resolve in mind she left the room; merely bidding her son "lie still till I come back."

Then she descended to the hotel office and called for a telegraph blank.

This was courteously provided; also pen and ink with which to inscribe it, which she promptly did, then the following dialogue:—

"Please send this message at once, clerk."

"Sorry, Madam, but I can't do it. Not to-day."

"Why not?" haughtily.

"Office is closed. No despatches sent on Sunday. Can do it about seven A. M. Monday."

"You mean to tell me that ridiculous stuff? Where is the office? If this second-rate hotel can't accommodate its patrons I'll take it myself."

"The office is at the railway station, Madam. You will find it closed."

"Indeed? Well, when does the first train start for Yarmouth and a steamer for the States, either Boston or New York?"

"At ten o'clock Monday morning. Upon arrival at Yarmouth meets steamers for both ports, Madam."

"None, to-day?"

"None, Madam. It is a law of the Province. From Saturday night to Monday morning all traffic is suspended."

Mrs. Stark did not continue the dialogue. She couldn't. She was too astonished and too indignant. That she, Mrs. Ebenezer Stark, wife of the great banker of that name, should not be able to control a matter of this sort was simply incredible. With her head very high she left the desk and sought the Judge in his quiet corner of the piazza, where he sat, newspaper over face, trying to catch "forty winks" after his night of scant sleep.

He suppressed a yawn as he rose at the lady's call.

"Judge Breckenridge, a moment, if you please. Sorry to disturb you but it's most important. I want to send a telegram and that ridiculous clerk says I can't do it."

"Quite right. I'd like to myself and can't."

He placed a chair for her and she thoroughly aired her grievance. He sympathized but declared himself powerless to help her. She remarked:

"It is simply outrageous. A trap to keep visitors here whether or no. My husband will make it his business to alter the whole thing. I must go and take Monty away from here. I am in fear for his life. I shan't rest till I see him safe back in his father's arms."

The Judge listened courteously, but said:

"We tourists have no business to find fault with the laws the Provincials make for themselves. We'd resent their interference in the States. As for taking your son away, just because of a little accident which ended all right, aren't you making a mistake? In any case, since you cannot get away till to-morrow, anyway, wouldn't it be wise for you to rest now and recuperate from your night of anxiety? Unless you will join us in church-going. Lucretia never lets me off that duty, even if I were inclined, but I'm not. Like herself I always enjoy service in strange churches. We would be most happy to have you?"

"Thank you, but I couldn't. Not to-day. I'm too upset and weary. I couldn't leave my darling boy, either, after he's just been rescued from a—a watery grave. He's just told me that he fell, or was pushed overboard, and that the bugling boy was scared and helped him out. Oh! it makes me cold all over just to think of it!"

The Judge was no longer sleepy. His tone was sharp and judicial as he asked:

"Is that the version Montmorency gave of the affair?"

Then when she hesitated to answer, he added:

"Because I have heard quite a different one. I wormed it out of little Tommy, whom Melvin had threatened with punishment if he betrayed the really heroic part the 'bugling boy' played in the case. Doubly brave because, though he has tried his best to overcome it, Melvin has a horror of the sea. His father was drowned and if he followed his inclination the orphaned lad would never leave dry ground. But his race is a sea-faring one, and he knows that it may only be by following the profession of his forebears that he can ever earn a living for himself and his mother—though I should have put her first, as she certainly is in her son's thoughts. When Montmorency fooled and fell overboard—by no means was pushed—Melvin conquered his own horror and plunged after him. If he hadn't—Well, we shouldn't be talking so calmly together now, you and I."

Poor Mrs. Stark! She was torn and tossed by more emotions than had ever been hers during her easy life, and each emotion was at variance with another. She dropped into a chair to collect herself; and at the end of a few moments remarked:

"If that is the case I will do something for the boy. Whatever amount of money you think suitable, I will give you a check for."

He wanted to retort sharply, but he didn't. He forced himself to say quite gently:

"No payment, Mrs. Stark, would prove acceptable. In his victory over himself and his own cowardice Melvin has grown richer than any dollars could make him. If you will pardon my advice, don't offer him anything save kindness and don't make that too conspicuous. A shy boy needs careful handling."

He bowed as she now rose and went her way, a very thoughtful woman. But her heart rejoiced beyond expression that no matter what the details of the night's episode had been, her best-loved object in this world was safe and sound. She would go to him and basking in the sunshine of his beloved presence content herself as best she could, until tomorrow's trains should bear them both away.

Alas! When she came to the room where she had left him she found no chance to "bask." Her "sunshine" had again disappeared.



CHAPTER XI

IN EVANGELINE LAND

The obliging operator at the telegraph office was almost at her wits' end. She had never been besieged so early in the morning and required to send so many lengthy messages, nor have them come crowding one another so confusingly. The strange part of it all was that although they were intended for one person, a Mr. Ebenezer Stark of Boston, there were three persons telegraphing him.

One was a stout lady of exceedingly fashionable appearance and most peremptory manner. As seemed fitting the first reply of Mr. Ebenezer Stark was for her, and assured her that he would meet her at the wharf, with a carriage, upon the arrival of the first steamer out from Yarmouth. It also informed her that he had already sent her word by post—that letter could follow her home—of the dangerous illness of her mother and that she should make all possible haste. Thus far her message suited him exactly. He made no mention of their son nor did she. It went without saying that Monty would accompany his mother upon her return trip.

Judge Breckenridge was also an early riser. He had met Monty hurrying down the back street toward the little railway station and the office in its corner, and had greeted him with gay surprise:

"Heigho, lad! Whither so fast and so early?"

"Trying to get ahead of Mamma."

"Why, Montmorency!" cried the gentleman, with an assumed sternness yet a twinkle in his eye.

"Fact. She's on the road somewhere, but she had to wait for them to hitch up a rig first. Thinks she can't walk these few blocks alone, I suppose, and didn't suspect I could have escorted her. But 'Lovey' didn't tell her his plans till he knows if he can carry them out. But I'm glad to see you. I didn't want to do anything sort of underhand with you, you know. Say, Judge, does your invitation to go camping still hold good? After my looking such a muff and acting it?"

"Certainly. If your parents permit, I shall be glad to have you. I think that a few weeks' association with men like my friends would give you a new idea of true manliness; and I can promise you to hear more good stories from the 'Boys' than you ever heard in your life."

"Thank you, sir. I'm going to wire Papa to let me stay. What he says goes, even with Mamma. He lets her have her way about my school, and clothes and all that stuff, but he hasn't ever quite let go of me himself. If it hadn't been for Papa I'd be a bigger muff than I am now. Only he's so awfully absorbed in business that he never takes a vacation himself or does anything except pile up the cash and shove it out for Mamma to spend. Beg pardon, I've no business to tell you, or bother you, with our affairs. I only wanted to know in case he says 'Yes.'"

They were almost at the end of their short walk and the Judge's face lightened with a whimsical expression, as he answered:

"Well, Monty lad, muffs are mighty handy sometimes. I heard Lucretia say they wore them large last winter! If I take a muff into camp I shall expect it to add to the general comfort of the party. Ready to warm the heart of anybody who happens to get lonely or out of sorts."

"This muff will do its duty, sir. You'll see; if—"

He left his sentence unfinished and although his response was delayed till after Mrs. Stark's had been received he did not complain of it, but smilingly handed it to the Judge to peruse.

His outward telegram had been:

"Papa, let me stay;" and the incoming one was: "All right. Stay."

He did not inform his mother why he was there at the office so early and she did not inquire. She attributed it to his filial affection and was accordingly touched by it. She petted him as usual, and carried him back to the hotel in her phaeton, while she thrilled with satisfaction at the knowledge she could at last get away from a benighted region where no Sunday trains were run.

The Judge's messages were last, and the longest. His outgoing one gave Mr. Ebenezer Stark a sketchy outline of his vacation plans, announced the gentlemen who would share it with him, and added a formal invitation for Montmorency to be of the party, if agreeable to the lad's friends. Mr. Stark's reply was heartily grateful, expressed his appreciation of the Judge's courtesy and good nature in "loading himself with a boy of the calf age. A calf of good enough pedigree, but needed turning out to pasture away from the mother," and a little more to that nature.

The rub came when trunks were being packed and Montmorency announced that his "things" needn't be put in; except the "dudish" ones which he wouldn't want in a vacation camp.

Mrs. Stark was so astonished that she was silent and during that interval her son talked and explained with a rapidity that left her no chance for reply. "Father says so," was the final argument that clinched the matter; and she wisely refrained from further controversy, reflecting that "Father" might alter his opinion when she had met him and reported the true state of things. Then he would, of course, promptly recall his son and heir from a region so fraught with dangers and temptations as this Province.

Therefore, the parting was effected with less friction than Monty had anticipated, and he watched the train that bore his too-solicitous mother out of sight with a delight that, for the present, knew no regret. He was fully in earnest to "make a man" of himself, and felt that he would be better able to succeed if freed from the indulgence which had surrounded him from his cradle.

After allowing himself the relief of one "pigeon-wing" on the station-platform, he sprang up to the steps at the rear of the hotel stage which had brought departing guests to the train and hugged Tommy, perched there, till the little fellow squealed.

"Good enough, Tommy boy! I'm to rough it now to my heart's content. Ever been hunting or fishing in the woods, younker?"

"Yep. Go most every year—that is, I've been once—with the Boss. He's the best hunter anywhere's around. It was him got all those moose and caribou heads that are in the lobby. Oh! you bet it's cracky! I'm going this fall if—if I'm let, and my mother don't make me go to school."

"Mothers—Well, mothers have a bad way of spoiling a fellow's fun, eh, lad? But after all, they're a pretty good arrangement. I hope my mother'll have a good trip over to Boston; and see? Look there?"

With that he pulled from his pocket a handful of silver, explaining that when she traveled Mrs. Stark always provided herself with a large quantity of "change" expressly for "tips," and that she had generously handed the amount on to her son, since she was simply "going home" and wouldn't need it.

"More in my suit-case, too, Tommy. But—I'm going to give it all away the minute I get back to the hotel."

Tommy's eyes almost bulged from his head, as he ejaculated in intense amazement:

"You never!"

"Fact. I'm going to begin right now."

Tommy nearly fell off the step. There in his own small hand lay the greater part of what had been in Montmorency's, but he couldn't believe in his own good fortune. Despite the tips he received at the hotel—they were neither many nor generous—master Thomas Ransom was a very poor little fellow. He held his position at the inn by the fact that he was willing to work "for his board" and whatever the guests might chance to bestow upon him. The landlord had the name of a "skin-flint," whether justly or not the boarders didn't know.

It was to his interest, however, to serve them well and he did it; but it was rumored that the "help" fared upon the leavings of the guests' plates, and in that atmosphere of healthy appetites such leavings were scant. Anyway, Tommy was always hungry, and the fact showed in his pinched, eager little face.

"You're foolin'. Here 'tis back;" he finally gasped, extending his hand toward Monty with a pitiful attempt at a smile.

"Fooling? Not one bit. You put that where it's safe, and the first chance you get run into the village to some restaurant and get yourself a good square meal. Then go to the circus, if you want. I see by the placards that one is coming."

"Oh! Pshaw! I don't know what to say. But, if you do mean it, I ain't going to no restaurant. I'm going home to my mother the first leave off I get and give it to her. She can't make her rent hardly, sewing, and she'll cook a dinner for me to the queen's taste! Wish you'd come and eat it with us."

"Wish I could," answered Monty, with a warm glow in his heart. He hadn't often had such a look of rapturous gratitude turned upon him and it gave him a most delightful sensation. "But you see we're off by the afternoon train. Going to hurry along now till we get into camp. See you later, maybe."

Then they were at the hotel entrance and master Tommy made haste to bestow his treasure in the safest place he knew until his brief hour of recreation should arrive and he could take it home. But how he worked that day! Even the keen-eyed proprietor could find no manner of fault with the nimble little fellow, who answered bells like a flash, so smilingly trotted about with pitchers of ice-water, and so regretfully watched the departure of the Breckenridge party from the house. And in justice to him be it said this regret was after all and most sincerely for the courteous treatment all of them had given him.

"Some folks—some folks think a bell-boy hain't no feelings, but I might ha' been—Why, I might ha' been them, their own folks, so nice they all were to me;" thought the lad, watching the afternoon train bearing them all away, and secretly wiping the tears from his eyes. However, even for him, deserted as his childish heart felt then, there was comfort. The circus was coming to-morrow! It would be his day off and he had the money to pay for his ticket and one for Ma!

The train was nearing Wolfville where the travelers were to leave it for a brief visit to "Evangeline land" before proceeding to Halifax whence the campers would set out. Aunt Lucretia had checked off the various stations from her time-table and now announced:

"Better get your things together, everybody. Next stop will be ours."

Then Montmorency Vavasour-Stark got his courage to the sticking point and went forward to where the Judge stood looking through the car door at the landscape whirling by.

"Judge Breckenridge will you do me a favor? Another one, I mean, for you've done a lot already."

"Certainly, if it's within my power."

"It is, easy enough. I want you to take this and keep it for me. I want to actually give it away, or put it beyond my reach. I've been thinking it's the boys without money that amount to something. I want to make myself poor and see if I'm worth 'shucks' aside from my father's cash."

He held out a fat pocketbook but, for a moment, the Judge did not appear to see it. He looked the lad critically over, his keen, but kindly eyes interested and yet doubtful. Then he said:

"I don't like whimsies. A person who makes a resolution and doesn't keep it weakens rather than strengthens his character. Have you the slightest idea what it means to be 'poor,' or even like Melvin back yonder, who has but a very small wage to use for his own?"

"I don't suppose I have. But I'd like to try it during all the time I'm over here in the Province. What I mean is that you should pay all my necessary expenses just as you pay for the others; and beyond that I don't want a cent."

"Melvin will earn a little for his work in camp. He is to cook and do whatever is needed. There will be an Indian guide with us, and he, of course, will have his regular price per day, or week. Beyond these two helpers we 'Boys' will do everything else ourselves. It is our custom. I can't hire you and pay you, as an extra. If that were done it would have to be by some other of the party and it's not likely."

The gentleman's tone was more grave than the lad felt was necessary, but it made him reflect a little deeper himself. At last he again offered the purse, saying:

"I mean it. It's my chance. The first one I ever had to see if I can deny myself anything. Please try me."

"Very well, lad, and I congratulate you on the pluck that makes the effort. However—your last chance! Once made, once this pocketbook passes into my care it becomes mine for the rest of our stay together."

"All right, sir. That's exactly what I want."

"Do you know how much is in it?"

"To a cent. And it's a great deal too much for a good-for-nothing like me."

"Don't say that, Montmorency. I wouldn't take a 'good-for-nothing' under my care for so long a time. You forget I already have a 'muff' on hand. I congratulate myself, this time, on having secured a 'good-for-something.' Ah! here we are!"

The Judge took the purse and coolly slipped it into his own pocket, merely adding:

"I will also count the contents and make a note of them as soon as I can. As your expenses have been paid by yourself until now we'll begin our account from this moment. When we part company, soon or late, you shall have an itemized account of all that is used from your store."

Then the conductor came through the car calling:

"Wolfville! All out for Wolfville!"

"Out" they were all, in a minute, and again the "Flying Bluenose" was speeding on toward the end of its route.

"This is the nearest, or best, point from which to make our excursion to Grand Pre and old Acadia, which our beloved Longfellow made famous by his poem. You'll find yourselves 'Evangelined' on every hand while you're here. Glad it's so pleasant. We won't have to waste time on account of the weather."

They found comfortable quarters for the night and longer if desired and were early to bed. The girls to dream of the hapless maid whose story thrilled their romantic souls; and Molly went to sleep with an abridged copy of the poem under her pillow.

Early in the morning she and Dorothy took a brisk walk through the pretty village and peered into the shop windows where, indeed, the name "Evangeline" seemed tacked to most articles of commerce. So frequently was it displayed that when they met a meditative cow pacing along the dewy street Molly exclaimed:

"I wonder if that's Evangeline's 'dun white cow,' whatever 'dun white' may be like. She looks ancient enough and—Oh! she's coming right toward us!"

Molly was afraid of cows and instinctively hid herself behind Dolly, who laughed and remarked:

"Poor old creature! She looks as if she might have lived in the days of the Acadians, she's so thin and gaunt. Yet the whole street is grass-bordered if she chose to help herself. But isn't this glorious? Can you hardly wait till we get to Grand Pre? It's only a few miles away and I'd almost rather walk than not."

"You'll not be let to walk, mind that. My father has had enough of things happening to us youngsters. I heard him tell Auntie Lu that none of us must be allowed out of sight of some of them, the grown-ups, till we were landed safe on that farm, and Auntie laughed. She said she agreed with him but she wasn't so sure about even a farm being utterly safe from adventures. So we'll all have to walk just niminy-piminy till then. We shouldn't be here if Miss Greatorex hadn't said she too wanted to 'exercise.' Now, she's beckoning to us and we must turn back. Come away from staring over into that garden! That hedge of sweet-peas is not for you, honey, badly as you covet it!"

"All right, I'll come. But I wish, I wish Father John could see them. I never saw any so big and free-blooming as they are in this beautiful Province."

"It's the moisture and coolness of the air, Auntie Lu says. Now, Miss Greatorex, do make Dolly Doodles walk between us, else she'll never tear herself away from the lovely gardens we pass."

But they were not late to breakfast, nevertheless. They had learned at last that nothing so annoyed the genial Judge as want of punctuality. He planned the hours of his day to a nicety and by keeping to his plans managed to get a great deal of enjoyment for everybody.

Already carriages to take them on the drive to Grand Pre and the old Acadian region had been ordered and were at the door when they had breakfasted and appeared on the piazza. The two girls were helped into the smaller open wagon where Melvin sat holding the reins and visibly proud of the confidence reposed in him, and on the front seat of this the Judge also took his place. The ladies with Monty and a driver occupied the comfortable surrey; and already other vehicles were entering the hotel grounds, engaged by other tourists for the same trip.

Monty looked back with regret at the other young folks and longed to ask the Judge to exchange places; then laughed to himself as he remembered that it was no longer his place to ask favors—a penniless boy as he had become!

That was a never-to-be-forgotten day for all the party. No untoward incident marked it, but so well-known is the story of that region that it needs no repetition here. Of course they visited the famous well whence "Evangeline" drew water for her herd, and almost the original herd might have fed in the meadow surrounding it, so peaceful were the cattle cropping the grass there. They saw the "old willows" and the ancient Covenanter church, wherein they all inscribed their names upon the pages of a great book kept for that special purpose.

The church especially interested Dorothy, with its quaint old pulpit and sounding board, its high-backed pews and small-paned windows; and when she wandered into the old burying ground behind, with its periwinkle-covered graves, a strange sadness settled over her.

The whole story had that tendency and the talk of "unknown graves" roused afresh in her mind the old wonder:

"Where are my own parents' graves, if they are dead? Where are they if they are still alive?"

With this in mind and in memory of these other unknown sleepers whose ancient head-stones had moved her so profoundly, she gathered from the confines of the field a bunch of that periwinkle, or myrtle which grew there so abundantly. Thrusting this into the front of her jacket she resolved to pack it nicely in wet moss and send it home to Alfaretta, with the request that she would plant it in the cottage garden. Then she rejoined the others at the gate and the ride was continued to another point of interest called "Evangeline Beach." Why or wherefore, nobody explained; yet it was a pretty enough spot on the shore where a few guests of a near-by hotel were bathing and where they all stopped to rest their horses before the long ride home.

Dorothy was full of thoughts of home by then, and something in the color of the horse which had drawn her hither awoke tender memories of pretty Portia, now doubtless happily grazing on a dear mountain far away. With this sentiment in mind she stooped and plucked a handful of grass and held it under the nose of the pensive livery-nag.

But alas, for sentiment! Not the few blades of sea-grass appealed to the creature who, while Dorothy's head was turned, stretched forth its own and pulled the myrtle from the jacket and was contentedly munching it when its owner discovered its loss.

"Dolly Doodles, whatever are you doing?" cried Molly, running up.

"She's got—he's got my 'Evangeline' vines! I'm getting—what I can!"

Molly shouted in her glee and the rest of the party drew near to also enjoy. They had all alighted to walk about a bit and stretch their limbs, and now watched in answering amusement the brief tussle between maid and mare. It ended with the latter's securing the lion's share of the goodly bunch; but myrtle vines are tough and Dorothy came off a partial victor with one spray in her hand. It had lost most of its leaves and otherwise suffered mischance, yet she was not wholly hopeless of saving that much alive; and in any case the incident had banished all morbid thoughts from her mind, and she was quite the merriest of all during that long drive homeward to the hotel.

As they alighted Monty stepped gallantly forward and offered:

"When we get to Halifax I'll buy you a slender vase and you can keep it in water till you go home yourself. Or I'll send back to that graveyard and pay somebody to send you on a lot, after you get back to your own home."

"Oh! thank you. That's ever so kind, and I'll be glad of the vase. But you needn't send for any more vines. They wouldn't be the same as this I gathered myself for darling Father John."

"But you shall have them all the same. They'd be just as valuable to him if not to you and some of those boys that hung around the church would pack it for a little money. I'll do it, sure."

"Will you, Montmorency? How?" asked a voice beside him and the lad looked up into the face of the Judge.

"No, sir, I won't! I'll have to take that offer back, Dorothy, take them both back," and he flushed furiously at her surprised and questioning glance. It was the first test he had made of his "poverty" and he found it as uncomfortable as novel.



CHAPTER XII

SIGHT SEEING UNDER DIFFICULTIES

"Halifax! End of the line!"

The conductor's announcement was followed by the usual haste and bustle among the passengers, the taking down of parcels from the racks overhead, and a general settling and straightening of travel-crushed garments.

This little preparatory freshening over, the travelers stepped into the car aisles and followed the rush forward; passing out into by far the most pretentious station they had seen in the Province. Lines of hackmen were drawn up alongside the rail which bordered the paved descent to the railway level, and a policeman in uniform held back the too-solicitous drivers from the arriving strangers, who looked about them, mostly, in doubt which vehicle to select:

"Here you are for the Halifax!" "Right this way for the Queen! Queen, sir? Queen, madam? Finest hotel in—" "Prince Edward! Right on the bluff—overlooking—" "King's Arms! Carriage for the King's Arms?"

To the rail and no further were these runners for their various employers permitted to go, yet even at that few feet of safe distance their cries were so deafening and insistent that Dorothy clapped her hands to her ears and shut her eyes, lest she should grow too much confused.

But there was no hesitation about the Judge. His hotel was a familiar one, their rooms engaged long before; and by a nod he summoned the 'bus of that house, marshalled his party into it, handed the runner his baggage checks, and they rolled away through the streets of the oldest city in the Province.

Just then it was gay with illimitable decorations of bunting and flags, in honor of the visit of the Viceroy of Canada and his consort, due upon the morrow.

"Oh, Papa, did they know we were coming?" mischievously inquired Molly, as vista after vista of red and blue and white unrolled before her eager eyes. "I never saw anything like it! Even at our home Carnival there wasn't anything to compare."

"That's Canada. We Yankees boast we go ahead of everything in the world no matter what line we chance to follow. Canada doesn't boast, she simply goes ahead."

"Oh! how disloyal, Schuyler!" protested Aunt Lucretia, herself gazing with admiration at the buildings whose fronts were almost solidly covered with artistically arranged decorations. Of course the English and Canadian flags held first place, but at last their 'bus stopped before a quaint old hotel whose balconies were draped with as many American as English banners.

"Why, is this an American, I mean a United States hotel?" asked Auntie Lu; while Miss Greatorex's face assumed a more agreeable expression than it had worn since they left the station. She had felt hitherto as if an alien nation had flaunted its colors in her own patriotic face; but her common sense now assured her that these people had a right to honor their rulers after their own fashion even if it could by no possibility be so good a fashion as reigned in her beloved States.

The youngsters of the party felt nothing but delight; and as a squad of scarlet-coated soldiers came marching toward them on the other side of the street Monty tossed up his cap and cheered. Melvin did more, as was natural. They marched to the tune of "God Save the King," and were on their way to Parliament House to give an evening concert; and as the 'bus came abreast of the squad with its fine band and its national colors floating in front, the young Yarmouthian rose and bared his head, saluting the flag! Then he dropped back to his seat with a slight flush on his fair cheek, as he felt the eyes of the three strangers rest upon him curiously. Then cried Molly:

"That was funny! I forgot you weren't a 'Yankee' like ourselves, but you did right, you did just right. I wouldn't have let Old Glory pass by without doing it my honor. But, do you know, Auntie Lu, I feel as if this were a foreign country and not part of our own America?"

She was to feel it more and more, but to find a keen delight in all that was so new to her and so matter of fact to Melvin. Even the dishes served at table, were decidedly "English" in name and flavor, though there were plenty of other and more familiar ones upon the menu.

After this supper which was more hearty than most dinners at home, they walked to the postoffice and found a heap of mail that had been forwarded along their route. As usual there were letters from the "Boys" and the Judge hailed with delight the news that they, as well as the Governor-General, would be among the morrow's arrivals.

"We'll stay till Sunday in Halifax, then start for camp on Monday, rain or shine, wind, fog, or sunshine;" wrote the correspondent who arranged matters from the other end of the line.

"Good enough, good enough! Then my vacation will actually begin!" cried the pleased man.

"And pray, what do you call the days that have just passed, my brother?" demanded Auntie Lu, with a smile.

"My dear, I call that a 'personally conducted tour,' a tour of great responsibility and many perils. After Monday, when I deposit you ladies and the youngsters at Farmer Grimm's, I wash my hands of the whole of you for one long, delightful month!"

The laugh with which he said this disarmed the words of any unkindness and was echoed by another laugh quite free from offense.

"Very well, then, Schuyler, until Monday we hold you to your 'personally' conducting. You must take us everywhere, show us everything that is worth while. I want to go to the 'Martello' tower; to the Citadel, the old churches, the parks, all over the harbor on all sorts and conditions of boats, to—"

But the Judge held up his hand, protesting. Then asked:

"Suppose it proves a foggy season? Fog is one of the things to be counted upon in all parts of this country, more especially here. One summer I was here three weeks and the sun didn't shine once!"

However, Mrs. Hungerford was bent upon enjoying and making others enjoy this visit; and she laughingly assured him that they were all "fog proof."

"Every one of us has overshoes, umbrella, and raincoat. We feminines I mean and 'boys' aren't supposed to mind any sort of weather. Am I not right, Melvin?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hungerford, I fancy you are. We have so much wet weather we're 'most unprepared for sunshine, don't you know."

This was so long a remark for Melvin, and so thoroughly "English" with its "fancy" and "don't you know," that all laughed.

But they waked in the morning to find the Judge's fear of a fog justified. The whole city was a-drip. The decorations which had been so crisp and brilliant on the day before hung limp and already discolored; and the scarlet and white bunting which had been so artistically wreathed about columns and cornices now clung tightly to them as if shivering in the wet.

It was a disheartened populace, too, which one met upon the street; for the expense had been great in preparations for the Governor's visit and the week of Carnival that had been planned seemed doomed to a series of disappointments.

None the less Auntie Lu held her brother to his promise to escort them everywhere; and everywhere they went, though mostly in covered carriages or under dripping umbrellas. One morning when the sunshine came for a brief visit they hastened to the street before the Provincial building to hear the most famous band in all the Canadas give its open air concert. Other people besides themselves had flocked thither at the first ray from the sun and now crowded the pavements surrounding the iron-fenced grounds. Everybody waxed enthusiastic and hopeful till—suddenly a drop fell on the tip of the band leader's nose. He cast one glance skyward but continued to wield his baton with great flourish and skill. Another drop; many; and the summer crowd swiftly dispersed. Not so our sightseers from the States. But let Dorothy tell the tale in her own words and in the journal-letter she faithfully tried to keep for Father John:

"Dear Father:—

"Since we've been here in Halifax I haven't had a chance to write as regular as I ought. You see we come home so tired and wet every time that—Well, I just can't really write.

"We went to an open air concert in the heart of the city. The band was, were—which is right? Anyhow the men all had on their Sunday uniforms, the most beautiful red and brass and buttons, and their instruments shone like anything. It rained, still they didn't even wink, except the head of them. He was brillianter dressed than any of them and he didn't like the rain. You could see that plain as plain. They all had little stands before them with their music on and the music got wet and splattery, but they didn't stop. They just tossed one piece of music down and began another, after they'd waited a little bit of while, to get their breath, I reckon. By and by all the people, nearly, had gone away from the sidewalk yet the band played right along.

"Then I heard somebody laugh. It was the Judge. He was laughing at Auntie Lu; he always is and she at him. When she asked him 'why,' he said: 'I was thinking this was a match game between British and Yankee pluck. It's the Britisher's 'duty' to play to the end of his program and he'll do it if he's melted into a little heap when he's finished. It seems to be Yankee pluck, or duty, to stand out here in this melancholy drizzle and hold on as long as he does.'

"'Of course,' said Mrs. Hungerford, 'it would be mean of us to desert the poor chaps and leave them without a listener at all.'

"Then he said: 'Let's go indoors and sit in the 'seats of the mighty.''

"She didn't know what he meant but he soon showed her. The Province Building where their sort of Congress meets was all open wide and they weren't having any session, it not being session time. So we went in and sat around in leather covered chairs, only Molly and I and the boys climbed up on the window seats and sat there. We could hear beautiful and we got quite dry. Only it isn't any use getting dry, daytimes, 'cause you're always going right out and getting wet again.

"Sunday was the wettest yet. It didn't look so and Auntie Lu let us girls put on white dresses, but she made us take our raincoats and umbrellas and rubbers just the same. We went to the soldiers' church out of doors, 'cause they'd thought it was clearing off. There were benches fixed in rows like seats in church, and there was a kind of pulpit all covered by a great English flag. Other benches were up at one side. They were for the band. By and by a bugle blew and they came marching, marching over the grass from the big barracks beyond. The field sloped right down the side of a great hill and at the foot, seemed so close one could almost touch it but you couldn't for there were streets between, was the harbor of water.

"It was an English church service and the minister prayed for all the royal family one by one. The soldier-band played the chants and hymns and they and anybody wanted sang them. After a little while it rained again and we put on our coats and didn't dare to raise our umbrellas, 'cause we were in church you know.

"It seemed pretty long but I loved it. I loved the red soldiers and the beautiful place and all. Auntie Lu said it was a good sermon and that the preacher considerately cut it pretty short. But it wasn't so short but that we got our hats dreadfully wet and Auntie Lu had to buy herself a new one before we came away last Monday morning. In the evening we went to St. Paul's, which is the oldest church in this oldest city of Markland, as some call Nova Scotia.

"Now we have ridden a good many miles in wagons to this great old farmhouse right on the edge of the woods. Miles and miles of woods, seems if. There are lakes in them and rivers and game of every sort, seems if, to hear them tell. Judge Breckenridge's friends are here, too, and the Indian guide. He calls them 'the Boys,' and they do act like boys just after school's let out. They laugh and joke and carry on till Molly and I just stare.

"Judge has hired a river to fish in. Isn't that funny? To pay for a place to fish, and the Farmer Grimm we're to live with is going to haul all their camp things out there to-morrow morning before sun-up. Monty and Melvin are to go, too, and I expect we women folks'll feel pretty lonesome.

"One lovely thing the Judge did for me. He hired a violin for me to practice on here. He said he thought it would pass the time for all of us. There's a piano, too, already in the house, and Molly can play real nice on that. Her Auntie Lu plays mag-nifi-cently. I wrote that out in syllables so as to get it right and to make it more—more impressiver. I'm dreadful tired and have been finishing this letter sitting on the floor beside a great big fire on the hearth. It isn't a bit too warm, either, even though the sun has shone again to-day.

"Good night. Your sleepy Dorothy, but always loving you the best of all the world.

"P. S.—The funniest thing happened after supper. Two the funniest ones. The bashful-bugler, that's Melvin, slipped something into my hand and said: 'That's to remember me by, a keepsake, if anything should happen to me out in the woods. I bought it for you that day in Digby.' When I opened the little box there was one those weeny-wiggley sort of silver fishes, they call the 'Digby chickens,' that I'd wanted to take home to Alfy. But I shan't take her this; I shall keep it. 'Cause Molly wants one, too, and when we get our next month's allowance, if we get it, we can write and buy some by mail.

"The other funny thing was one of those grown up 'boys.' He asked me to play for him and had me stand right near him. When I got through he looked over at the Judge and nodded his head. Two, three times he nodded it and then he said, just like this he said it: 'It is the most remarkable likeness I ever saw. You're on the right track Schuy, I'm sure of it!' And the Judge cried real pleased, 'Hurray!'

"They two were little boys together, down in the south where they lived and they know Mrs. Cecil Calvert real well. And the other 'boy' said: 'Aunt Betty'd ought to be spanked—same as she's spanked me a heap of times.'

"I wonder if it was I 'resembled' anybody and who! I wonder why any gentleman should say such a dreadful impolite thing about that dear old lady! I wonder,—Oh, Father John! Your little girl so often wonders many, many things! Good night at last. Molly calls real cross and I must go.

"DOLLY."

Dorothy's letters to Mother Martha were equally descriptive though not so long. One ran thus:

"Dearest Mother Martha:—

"You ought to see this farm where we're living now. It's so big and has so many cattle and men working, and orchards and potato-fields. They call the potatoes 'Bluenoses' just as they call the Nova Scotia folks. The house is part stone and part wood. The stone part was built ever and ever so long ago; strong so the man who built it could protect himself against the Indians. The man was English, and he was a Grimm; an ancestor of this Mr. Grimm we board with. The Indians were Micmacs and friends of the French. Seems if they were all fighting all together all the time, which should own the land. Mrs. Grimm says there have been a good many generations live here though all are gone now except her husband and herself. They are more than seventy years, both of them, but they don't act one bit old. She cooks and tends to things though she has two, three maids to help her. He rides horseback all over his farm and jumps off his horse and works with the men. Sometimes he drives the ox-carts with the hay and lets us ride.

"I did want you that last Saturday in Halifax. The day your letter came to me with the one dollar in it. I expect you wanted I should buy something to bring you with it but I didn't. Listen. It was what they called a 'green market' morning. Rained of course, or was terrible foggy between showers. The market is just a lot of Indians and negroes, and a few white people sitting round on the edge of the sidewalk all around a big building. The Judge told me many of them had come from across the harbor, miles beyond it, so far that they'd had to walk half the night to bring their stuff to market. Think of that! And such funny stuff it was. Green peas shelled in little measures, ready to cook. (I wish they'd have them that way in our own Lexington market at home!) Wild strawberries—I didn't see any other kind, no big ones like we have in Baltimore or at home. The berries were hulled and put into little home-made birch-bark baskets that the Indian women make themselves, just pinned together at the end with a thorn or stick. Auntie Lu bought some for us but Miss Greatorex wouldn't let me eat the berries, though I was just suffering to! She said after they'd been handled by those dirty Indian fingers she knew they were full of microbes or things and she didn't dare. Oh! dear! I wish she didn't feel so terrible responsible for my health, 'cause it spoils a lot of my good times. The boys weren't afraid of microbes and they ate the berries but I have the basket. It will be all I have to bring you from Halifax; because one of those Indian women had her baby with her and she looked so poor—I just couldn't help giving that dollar right to her. I couldn't really help it. She wanted me to take baskets in pay for it, but I knew that wouldn't be giving. You won't mind, will you, dearest Mother Martha? if the only thing I bring you from that city is a poor Indian woman's blessing? You always give to the poor yourself, so I wasn't afraid you'd scold. There are just two things that I'd like different here, on this lovely vacation. One is if only you and father were here, too! Every new and nice thing I see, or good time I have, I do so want them for you both also. The other is—I wish, I wish I knew who my father and mother were! The real ones. They couldn't have been any nicer than you have been to me, but folks that don't know me are sure to ask me about my family. Molly and Monty and Melvin are always able to tell about theirs, but I can't. Her mother, the 'other Molly,' died when she was a little thing, but she knows all about her. The Judge has a beautiful miniature of this 'other Molly' his wife, and takes it with him wherever he goes, even into that camp, where we're to be let to go, maybe, for a salmon dinner that the 'Boys' catch themselves.

"There are lots of books in this old house and a piano. Each generation has added to the library and Mrs. Grimm says that in the winter she and her husband read 'most all the time. Christmases, no matter how deep the snow, all their children come home and then the rooms are opened and warmed and they have such fun. Oh! it must be grand to belong to a big family and know it's all your own! They burn great logs of wood and even now we have a fire on the living-room hearth all the time. One of the young Indian boys who works here has nothing else for his chores except to keep the wood-boxes filled and the fires fresh. He's rather a nice Indian boy but he's full of capers. Molly is so lonesome without Monty and Melvin to play with she makes plays with Anton. I don't think Mrs. Grimm likes it and I'm sure Aunt Lucretia doesn't, for I heard her tell Molly so. But nobody can keep Molly Breckenridge still. She doesn't care to read much and she hates practicing, and she cries every time she has to sew a seam, though Mrs. Hungerford makes her do that 'for discipline.' I don't know what would become of the darling if it wasn't for Anton. She likes me, course, but I can't climb trees after cherries, or wade in ponds after water-lilies, and though I like to ride horseback with her I'm afraid to go beyond bounds where we're told to stay. Molly isn't afraid.

"Please give my love to Aunt Chloe and write soon to your loving

"DOROTHY."

Having finished this letter, longer than common, Dorothy wandered out of doors seeking her mate. She was nowhere in sight, but the man who rode into town so many miles away, to fetch and carry the mail and to bring supplies of such things as the farm did not produce, was just driving up the road and playfully shook his mail-pouch at her. She sped to meet him, was helped into his wagon and received the pouch in her arms. She and Molly were always eager to "go meet the mail," which was brought to them only every other day, and whichever was first and obtained it was given the key to the pouch and the privilege of distributing its contents. This privilege would be Dorothy's to-day; and she skipped into the living-room and to the ladies at their sewing, dragging the pouch behind her.

Little she knew of its contents; or that among them would come the solution of that "wonder" that now so constantly tormented her:—"Who were my parents?"



CHAPTER XIII

A MESSAGE FOR THE CAMP

When the gray-haired "Boys" had set out for camp, they had left word at the farm that they wished no newspapers or mail matter of that sort forwarded them. Also, most of them had, before leaving their own homes, asked that no letters should be written except such as were important, and these should be duly marked that. They wished to forget care and the outside world as far as possible, and to live in the faith that "no news is good news."

Therefore, since a fortnight had elapsed, there was a table in the living-room already heaped with the mail which had accumulated during that time. Each man's portion of it was carefully sorted and placed by itself; but this morning Auntie Lu, upon whom that duty devolved, did not augment her brother's heap by the three envelopes she had taken from the pouch. She sat long with them in her lap, pondering the course she should follow, for two bore a Richmond postmark and one that of Annapolis, and each was marked according to direction: "Important."

Miss Greatorex and Dorothy had both received a letter and were eagerly perusing them upon a low window seat, and Mrs. Hungerford left her own mail unopened to glance toward them, still considering what she should do. Her gaze rested longest upon the girl, whose face was radiant over a long, many-paged epistle from Father John. The young lips were parted in a smile, the brown eyes were smiling too, and Dolly looked such a picture of innocent delight that a pang shot through the observer's tender heart. For she knew that those "Important" letters concerned the child. They were addressed in Ephraim Cook's familiar, crabbed hand, and the man would never have ventured to disturb the peace of his absent employer except by that employer's command. Also, she knew that the only business of "Importance" the Judge had entrusted to Mr. Cook was that concerning Dorothy C. All law matters were attended to by other, more experienced persons. She longed to break the seals and read the contents for herself and wished now that she had asked permission so to do, but she could not open another person's letter without that one's desire.

Presently, she glanced through her own letters and sought Mrs. Grimm in her kitchen, busy among her maids at preparing the mid-day meal, always an early one since the farm-hands so preferred it; and it had been among their arrangements that, although her "boarders" should have a separate table in an inner room, the food for all the household should be the same. Nobody could complain of this for the housemistress was a notable cook and her supplies generous.

"Beg pardon, Mrs. Grimm, for interrupting you, but I want to ask if there's a 'hand' not busy who could ride out to camp and carry some letters to my brother. I am anxious he should have them for they may require immediate replies." She did not add, as she might, that an intense but kindly curiosity of her own was another reason for the request.

"Why, I can hardly tell, Mrs. Hungerford. They're all busy in the fields, and my husband with them. There are some who need a constant supervision and my man believes that there's nothing so good for any job as the 'eye of the master.' Else, he'd ride into the woods himself and think naught of it. Let me consider who—"

At that moment Anton came into the kitchen and threw an armful of hewn wood beside the great fireplace, where kettles hung upon cranes and "Dutch ovens" were ranged before the coals, each filled with savory food for hungry people. It was a spot Mrs. Hungerford found vastly interesting, but where she rarely lingered; for her presence seemed to disconcert the shy French maids who served their mistress there and whose own homes were isolated cottages here and there. So she was even now leaving the kitchen when she chanced to notice Anton and asked:

"Couldn't this lad go? I know that he heaped the boxes in the living-room and our bedrooms with more wood than we can use to-night, and surely one kitchen-fire can scarcely require more than that pile yonder. I will pay him, or you, well, if he can be spared to do my errand."

This guest was rarely so insistent and her hostess saw that to deny her the favor would be a great disappointment; so she answered that:

"Anton can be spared if—Anton can be trusted. And please, understand, dear madam, that no payment for such trivial service would be accepted."

"But it is a long ride there and back, longer than into Halifax isn't it? Yet the man who goes there makes but the one trip a day."

"That is for other reasons. He goes out in the morning upon our errands. It is part of our contract with him that he shall stop the night in town with his family and return the next day early. He is really our caterer and postman. But Anton—Anton is 'bound.' And Anton needs watching. Lad, do you promise that if I let you take a horse and ride to camp you'll do the lady's errand right and ride straight home again?"

He had lingered just within the kitchen doorway, fooling with the youngest of the maids who resented his teasing by a sharp clap on his cheek, but he had not been so absorbed in this pastime that he had not heard every word spoken between his mistress and her guest. Knowing that he was in truth an untrustworthy messenger, he resented its being told; and the statement that no payment would be accepted angered him. He was a bound-out servant, of course. So were many other lads of the Province and no disgrace in it; but if a free gift were offered, was it not his to take? A scowl settled on his dark face and he listened to the outcome of the matter with a vindictive interest. Also, he answered, sullenly:

"'Tis a far call to that camp in the woods and one must ride crooked, not 'straight,' to reach it. 'Twould be in the night ere Anton could be back, and there is no moon."

"Tut, lad! When was Anton ever afraid of the night or the dark? Indeed, some tell me that he loves it better than the light. The Scripture tells why. Will you go or not? And will you do the lady's errand right?"

"The master read in the Big Book, last Sunday-day that ever was, how the 'laborer is worthy of his hire.' That's good Scripture, too, Missus, the hay-makers say, and one nudged me to take notice at that time."

Mrs. Grimm hastily turned that he might not see the smile which flitted across her face, and Auntie Lu as suddenly found something interesting to observe which brought her back also toward the quick-witted, mischievous lad. She longed to renew her offer of payment but would not interfere between mistress and man, so waited anxiously for the result. It came after a moment, Mrs. Grimm saying:

"Go, saddle the gray mare and ride upon that errand. You shall have your dinner first, and a supper in a napkin to cheer you on the ride home. By 'lights out' you will be in your loft with the men. Now tidy yourself and come to table."

Anton wasted no time before he obeyed. His sullenness had been but a pretence and mostly assumed in order to secure that "payment" which the "foreign" lady offered. The gray mare was a fleet traveler, easy under the saddle—though for that matter he rarely used one—and he loved the forest. A half-day away from the mistress's eye was clear delight. She had said nothing against a gun or a fishing line and not even the best guide in that region knew better the secret of wood and stream than this other descendant of the Micmacs.

The maid he had teased was glad to be quit of him and hurried to dish up his portion of the dinner, while Mrs. Hungerford returned to desk to write a letter to her brother and to safely make all into a little packet, marked: "Private and Important."

She had told her companions of Anton's trip and Dorothy sped out of doors to beg the lad:

"If you see any new flowers, some of those wild orchids Miss Greatorex read grew around here, will you bring me some? Just a few for specimens, to press for Father John and Mr. Seth? They would be so pleased and I will be so grateful. Will you?"

Anton nodded. Promises were easy to make, and to break if he wished. Then came a maid from the kitchen with a message for her home, a tiny clearing on the edge of the "further wood." To her, also, a promise was readily spoken; and master Anton thrusting the securely tied packet of letters into his pocket, bowed to Mrs. Hungerford with a third and more important promise.

"'Tis of a truth I will deliver this into the hand of the man they call a Judge. It is a tedious task, yes, but I will so deliver it. Mayhap he too remembers what the Scripture says."

He uttered the last sentence in a low tone, with a furtive glance houseward, and bearing himself with an air of great complacency. He had become a very important person just then, had Anton, the "bound out." Moreover, he was wholly honest in his determination so to deliver the letters. That Judge in the woods hadn't heard the mistress's opinion about payment and it wasn't necessary that he should. Other farm hands had witnessed to the liberality of those odd men who lived in a tent, wore old clothes when they could wear new, and cooked their own food when they might have had others cook for them. Anton was not afraid to trust his "payment" to the man who owned the letters in that packet.

Now it so happened that Molly was riding about the grounds and up and down a leafy lane upon a gentle horse that her father had engaged for her own and Dorothy's enjoyment while on that lonely farm. She used the creature far more than Dorothy, as was natural and right enough; and had mounted it that day to escape what she called her chum's "everlasting fiddling."

Dorothy was as fond of her violin as Molly averse to her piano; and the nearest to dispute which ever rose between them was on account of Dolly's devotion to her music. She had even complained to Aunt Lucretia that "a violin made her head ache." Whereupon the ambitious violinist had begged permission of its owner to use an empty corncrib at the foot of the "long orchard," as a music-room, and there "squeaked" as long and as loud as she pleased. She was going there now, violin case under her arm, to pass the half-hour before dinner and to watch the men come in from the fields, at the ringing of the great bell which hung from a pole beside the kitchen door. To her the country was full of every possible delight, but poor Molly found it "too quiet and lonely for words." So she spent more and more of her time on every pleasant day, riding up and down the lanes or following Farmer Grimm to the fields.

Between those two a great affection had sprung up. He liked her fearlessness in riding and laughed at her timidity when horned cattle appeared anywhere near. He was proud of the way in which she could take a fence and kept her with him all he could.

On this day, however, he could not so take her. His errands were too far afield and too unsuited for her, and that was why she now rode alone, rather disconsolately up and down, until she saw Anton come out of the stable yard, mounted upon the gray mare and holding his head like a prince.

"Anton! Anton! Oh! are you going riding? Take me with you! Please, please, Anton!"

For answer he touched Bess with his heel and she flew out of the enclosure like a bird.

That was enough for Molly Breckenridge. Queenie, the broken-tailed sorrel which she rode, was as swift as she was gentle and needed no goad of heel or whip to spur her forward. A pat of the smooth neck, a word in the sensitive ear—"Fetch him out, Queen!"—and the race was on.

Anton glanced behind and the spirit of mischief flamed in him. They rode toward the forest where a few wood-roads entered, each of which he knew to its finish, not one of which knew Molly. Only this much she did know that Anton lived at the farm, where she lived. Anton rode the farmer's horse as she did. Anton was never absent from meals and it was dinner-time. Therefore, if she thought at all about it or considered further than the delight of a real race, she knew that back to the farm would Anton go and she could follow.

He dashed aside from the wheel-rutted track. She stumbled over the ridges, kept him in sight, and followed him. He doubled and twisted, so did she. He dashed forward in a long straight line, curved, circled, and came back to the wood-road some distance ahead. She did not curve but cut his circle by a short line and brought up at his side.

"Huh! 'Tis a good rider you are, Miss Molly, but you'd best go back now. I'm for the camp."

"Never! You can't be! They wouldn't trust you, you're so tricksy. Who'd want you there?"

He was instantly offended and showed it, drawing himself erect on the gray mare and tossing his head high while his narrow black eyes looked angrily at her. Then he drew from his blouse the packet Mrs. Hungerford had given him and haughtily explained:

"For that Judge. Now, am I trusted? No?"

It was very strange. Ever since she had been at the farm she had heard of Anton's pranks and trickiness. Tasks he had been set to perform were always neglected except that one of keeping fuel supplied, and this work brought him, also, constantly under his mistress's eye. Yet he allowed Molly to come so close she could recognize her aunt's handwriting outside the packet, and especially that word "Important."

Suddenly she resolved.

"Anton, if you ride to camp I ride with you."

"You will not. I say it." He wasn't going to be disappointed of his fun along the way by the presence of this girl, and no time had been told him when that parcel must be delivered. It must come to the Judge sometime, that was all. The later the better for him, Anton, the more leisure to enjoy the wild and escape that eternal carrying of wood. "You will not," he repeated, more firmly.

"I will so. That is for my father. His name is on it and it is 'Important.' I will see that he gets it. I don't trust you, Anton."

He was rather impressed by the fact that she could read what was written—he could not. He was also angered further by that unwise remark about not trusting him. He stared at her, she stared back. Good! It was a battle of wills, then!

He seemed to waver, smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. All roads lead to one's goal, if one knows them. He was an Indian. He could not be lost in any forest, he who was wise in woodcraft and could tell all directions by signs this "foreigner" could not know. He snapped his fingers, airily, pricked Bess forward again and into a trackless wilderness.

For a moment Molly hesitated. Should she go back and give up this chase? Turning around she gazed about her and could not tell which way she had come.

"Why! I couldn't go back, even if I tried. I don't see any track and—I must follow him. I can hear him on ahead, by the breaking branches—Forward, Queenie, quick, quick!"

But Queenie wasn't pleased to "forward." She shrank from the rude pressure of the undergrowth against her delicate shanks and, for an instant, set her forefeet stubbornly among the ferns and brambles. But Molly was now past tenderness with any mount which would not do her will and Queenie was forced into the path she hated to tread. Already the brief delay had cost her the sound of the gray mare's progress. There was neither breaking twig nor footfall to tell her whither that tormenting Anton had vanished. There was only the bruised herbage to show which way he had ridden and she must follow; and for a long time she kept her eyes on that faint lead and steadily pursued it.

Then she came to a partly open glade and there she lost the trail entirely. Across this glade Anton had certainly passed but in which direction she couldn't even guess. She reined Queenie to a stand and called:

"Anton! Anton! ANTON!!" and after another interval, again: "ANTON!"

There was an agony of fear in that last cry. Had Anton heard it, even his mischievous heart would have been touched and he would have ridden back to reassure her. But he did not hear her. He had now struck out from that narrow clearing into a road he knew well, by the blazed trees and the wheel-marks the camp-teamster had left upon it. The undergrowth had sprung up again, almost as completely as before it had been first disturbed, and even had Molly found that trail she would not have known enough to trace it.

But he was now on his own right road. She was where—she pleased. He had not asked her to come, he had tried to make her go back. He had not wanted her at all, but she had taunted him, distrusted him, and yet he knew that this once he was proving trustworthy. He felt that little packet safe in his blouse and patted the cloth above it commendingly.

"Good boy, Anton. If 'tis worth payment, this payment the so rich Judge will give. That girl rides well. Let her take care of herself. Go, Bess!"

He fished a little, fired a shot or two at some flying bird, then remembered that a shot might be heard and those from the camp come to inquire why it had been fired. Save themselves there were supposed to be no other sportsmen for miles around, and they would surely come, if from no other motive than curiosity.

It was supper-time when he came into camp and upon a picture that warmed his heart and banished from it, for a time, that rather uncomfortable sensation which had lately affected him. He had grown fanciful and thought a night-bird's call was the cry of somebody lost in the woods.

He was glad to see that cheerful fire, to smell the savory food cooking above it, to observe all the rude comforts with which modern sportsmen surround themselves. Those boys—Why, they had positively grown fat! And how they were laughing and fooling with one another! unrebuked by the older campers, who sat about on logs or stools, and smoked or talked or sang as the spirit moved them.

The Judge's keen eyes were the first to see the nose of the gray mare appearing through the thicket and he sprang to his feet with a little exclamation of alarm:

"Why, Anton, lad! What brings you here? Nothing had happened, I hope! Eh, what? A packet for me? All right. Thank you. You're just in time to join us. We've had fine sport to-day and will have a grand meal in consequence. How's everybody? How's my little Molly?"

Anton's answer was an indirect one.

"You'll tell 'em I brought it safe, no?"

"Why, surely. Did anybody doubt you would? And if it's good news, a good fee for fetching it. If bad—fee according!"

He drew a little apart, opened the parcel and read the letters. Then he took a pad from his tent and wrote a brief reply; after which he retied the bundle and gave it back to Anton, saying:

"Deliver this to Mrs. Hungerford as safely as you have to me and I dare say she'll give you another like this!"

He held out a shining silver dollar but somehow, although the lad did take it, it seemed to lie very heavy within that inner pocket where he dropped it.

Supper over, all grouped about the fire and beset the Indian guide for a fresh batch of ghost stories, his specialty in literature or tradition; and though Judge Breckenridge asked his messenger if it were not time that he started back—for Aunt Lu had written urging him to keep the boy no longer than was absolutely necessary—Anton still lingered. Hitherto he had known no fear of any forest. He inherited his love for it and his knowledge. He had even loved best to prowl in its depths during the moonlit or starlit hours, and riding hither had anticipated a leisurely return. So long as he was back at the farm by morning he saw no reason to hurry himself before.

Then he found himself listening to Monty's question:

"You say, Guide, that these very woods, right around us, are 'haunted?'"

"Sure. Hark!"

There was a strange unearthly cry from somewhere in the distance and the man continued:

"Some call that a screech-owl! But I know it's the cry of a girl who was lost in this forest. Why, Anton, boy, what's happened you?"

Anton had suddenly swayed in his seat and his face under its copper skin had turned ghastly pale.



CHAPTER XIV

HOW MOLLY CAME TO CAMP

"Yes, she was the daughter of one of the French squatters on that very lake we've fished this day. Susette they called her, and she was days in the woods. Out of this Laque de la Mort, they drew her body; but still, on dark nights, her spirit wanders as it wandered then, before she sought or found rest in the pool. 'Tis easy, sure. Take one of you men, even, and set you away from all the guide-marks we've made, you could not find your way save by some inherited instinct. We Indians, descendants of the forest men, get that instinct with our birth; even we who have lived among the white men all our days. That Anton yonder, though he has been housed under a roof ever since he was born, I warrant me he could be set in some unknown wilderness but would find a way out. Is it not so, Anton?" asked the half-breed story-teller, shading his eyes from the firelight to look at the boy.

An instant later he had risen and bent above Anton, who now cowered in his corner his head bent upon his knees and his whole attitude one of keen distress.

"Lad, what's amiss with you?"

Anton tossed off the kindly hand just laid upon his shoulder and raised a face that had grown haggard, with wild terrified eyes staring into the questioner's face.

"'Tis a lie, no? There is no girl wanders the forest nights! You are fool, Merimee, with your words!"

"That's as a man judges. Ghost tales were asked and told, and one is true. I know it. But fear not, lad. No spirit will molest to his harm one who rides through the wood aright, in the fear of God and with honesty in his heart. As for the ghost of poor Susette, hapless maid! Would not one with a spark of manhood in him seek to help her if he could? But alas! When one is dead, even living men with hearts of courage can avail nought. But, up. You've rested and supped. 'Tis time you were a-saddle and riding home to your duty. Up and away. Though the wood looks dark from here, 'tis because of our fire so bright. The stars are out and once away from this the road will seem light enough. As light as many another when you're played truant to your master to wander in it. Up, and away!"

This Merimee, guide, was mostly a man of few words. Yet when, as now, his toil for the day was over and the campers gathered for an evening chat it flattered his vanity to be asked for the legends and traditions of the countryside. His tongue had been loosened and he used it thus liberally for the benefit of Anton, the mischievous, who "shamed his duty" as old Merimee always honored it. As he finished speaking he walked to the tree where the gray mare was fastened, slipped on its saddle, tightened its girth, and called:

"Ready, Anton!"

And, as if in echo, again floated through the air overhead a night-bird's mournful cry and Anton shrieked, then sprang to his feet shivering with terror.

The men stared at him, astonished, and Monty ran to him, shook him, and demanded:

"Don't you know better than that? Scare a fellow's wits out of his head? That's nothing but the same old bird that's kept me awake—"

Melvin shouted in laughter, and the others echoed him.

"Kept you awake! Well, I'd like to know when? You that always go to sleep over your supper—if you're allowed!"

Monty laughed, also, and the mirth around him seemed to restore Anton's composure in a measure. But happening to glance toward Judge Breckenridge he saw that gentleman looking at him keenly and his guilty conscience awoke. In fact, the Judge was merely interested in watching the changes which fear wrought upon Anton's healthy face and was growing impatient to have the lad start home. He knew how eagerly his sister would wait to read the letters he was returning her and to comply with his own brief instructions concerning them. He was a man who wished always to do at once anything he had to do; and nothing annoyed him more than others' shilly-shallying. To his amazement, Anton begged him:

"Don't! Don't, sir, look at me like that! I didn't go for to do it! She—she done it herself!"

"Who did what? Have you lost your common sense?"

Then it all came out, the whole miserable story; in broken sentences, with keenest regret now, unhappy Anton told of Molly's following, of the trick he had played upon her, and of the fact that she was now wandering somewhere in that wild forest alone, save for old Queenie.

But the story was not ended before every member of that startled group was on his feet, ready for search and rescue. Though he could almost have killed the lad where he cowered, so furious was his wrath and terrible his fear, the Judge controlled himself and sternly ordered: